[With that permission, Sasuke's right hand extends into the sliver of space still separating them, setting itself to Cy's strong left shoulder. Smooth skin drags underneath the palm of his hand as he maps from that point up to the slope of a throat—where he can feel Cy's pulse drumming steady beneath his fingertips—then down, across the ridge of a collarbone, the hard flat center of the sternum, sideways across the solid swell of a pectoral.
In this exploration, the heel of his palm rubs across one dusky nipple to feel the give of soft nub, to feel it catch against the caress. It isn't to incite anything sexual so much as it is curious, navigating another male body like his own but wholly different, made of hard, lean lines and trim muscle. Completely, flawlessly smooth beneath his wandering hand unlike his own body, which is riddled with scars and mended bone. There's no story on Cy to tell what he's been through. Not even his mind is a reliable archive.
Down across the belly, the sensual jut of an iliac crest, his hand forming itself over Cy's hip in an experimental hold. He ventures lower only as far as he can reach—briefly traveling the outside of Cy's muscular thigh before he comes back up in a long, broad stroke.]
You may be my type too. [Intoned quietly, looking back up at Cy's face. There's the slightest pull of humor in it.] I don't know, since I never thought I had one.
no subject
In this exploration, the heel of his palm rubs across one dusky nipple to feel the give of soft nub, to feel it catch against the caress. It isn't to incite anything sexual so much as it is curious, navigating another male body like his own but wholly different, made of hard, lean lines and trim muscle. Completely, flawlessly smooth beneath his wandering hand unlike his own body, which is riddled with scars and mended bone. There's no story on Cy to tell what he's been through. Not even his mind is a reliable archive.
Down across the belly, the sensual jut of an iliac crest, his hand forming itself over Cy's hip in an experimental hold. He ventures lower only as far as he can reach—briefly traveling the outside of Cy's muscular thigh before he comes back up in a long, broad stroke.]
You may be my type too. [Intoned quietly, looking back up at Cy's face. There's the slightest pull of humor in it.] I don't know, since I never thought I had one.